An earlier version of this story appeared in Voice of the Hill, November 2004
You know … when it comes to Holiday décor, lots and lots of people simply lose control and give in to their basest impulses. We’re talking people who usually have impeccable taste, beautifully appointed homes, manicured lawns, and colour coordinated flower beds, who will after Thanksgiving chuck all of their fine living decorum for a chance to have the biggest honkin’ festival of lights in all of Christendom right in their own front yard. Why? I haven’t the faintest idea but I will tell you that neither money, social position, nor proximity to power guarantees good taste at the Holidays. No matter what area you cruise through, whether it is majestic East Capitol, quaint Park Street, or funky H Street, you will see what I mean.
Like many Hill dwellers, I am not a native Washingtonian or even a Southerner so I don’t always “get” the local cultural folkways. I grew up in Saskatoon, a small mid-western city in the middle of nowhere, north of the 49th parallel, where 40 below zero on Christmas Day is not unknown and people buck up with the fact that “at least it is a dry cold.” (Second favourite local tag line: “at least the sun is shining.” Yeah, well it is so cold that your car battery is completely dead, the dog refuses to go outside, and everyone – male & female – looks like the Michelin man when they do go out, but at least the sun is shining…) When people decorated their houses for Christmas, it was pretty subdued. (And let’s be honest here, in my neighbourhood there were no menorahs and Kwanza was unheard of.) We thought it rather fancy when our parents put coloured lights along the roof line of our houses. Occasionally in a neighbour’s front yard you would see a plywood Santa that Dad made and the kids painted. You could only see this objet d’art in daylight or when the outside light at the front door was on. Some blocks were slightly more dramatic putting on a thematic display – Candy Cane Lane, Bell Crescent – but again these were uniform home-made cutouts, a little cheesy but definitely cute. Granted this was in the Stone Age but I’m willing to bet that many of you would agree that the ghosts of Christmas past were a lot less fussy than they are today.
Now, right after Halloween the stores start rolling out as much holiday kitsch as they have space for. Sure we complain to one another that it is way too early to be thinking about Christmas but then fall all over ourselves at the big box retailers to get the best “stuff” before anyone else can get it. Rational, sensible, conservative professionals we Washingtonians are, but when it comes to our Christmas décor rituals, it’s a slam dunk that good taste loses out to raw emotional sentiment every time.
Check this: $149 will get you a “4-pc. grapevine-style sleigh-set with motion” that is covered in little lights. You won’t want to forget the accompanying “grapevine-style buck and doe with motion” that has even more teeny lights for an additional $49. Throw in the “4-pc holographic indoor/outdoor train set with chasing lights” for a mere $29 and you are well on your way to having your own personal winter wonderland. But wait! You still need Old St. Nick or at least a snowman to complete your diorama. For a measly $49 you can have a “42-inch twinkling snowman” with a red bow, top hat, and scraggly arms that if you squint might look like real sticks that fell from your “6-foot downswept twig tree” (with more lights, of course), that too was just $49. Now you are all set having enough wattage in front of your house to light the entire Capitol dome, to say nothing of the dizzying array of perpetual motion animals that could, if harnessed, run an artificial snow machine if you could just get your hands on one!
I’m just asking, but what is the deal with Santa these days? I mean when I was little, Santa rocked; I loved going to the Bay with my Mum (that’s the Hudson’s Bay Co. for those of you not from God’s country), dressed up in a red velvet dress with lace around the collar to get my picture taken with the Big Guy. The Bay was the best place to visit Santa because you also got a little white ceramic bell to tie onto the zipper of your jacket that made little tinkling sounds when you moved just so. Now that I am a teeny bit older & hopefully wiser (although there are those who may dispute that) I think Santa is a very existential dude. However, I really could live without seeing him in every retail outlet from Baby Gap to Midas Muffler, and certainly I would die happy if I never again saw him bobbing up and down in all of his 25 foot tall glory in the parking lot of just about any mall, grocery store, or car dealership you can name.
Not to be overly critical of the sacred, but I need to know: what’s with the over-the-top Vegas inspired manger scenes you see in front yards and some churches? Is it necessary to have quite so many multi-coloured spotlights poised on the crèche? Did the angels really wear tinsel on their heads? I know there were animals in the stable, but reindeer? In Bethlehem? And honestly! Do you really think it is appropriate for Bing Crosby to be crooning White Christmas to the Baby Jesus? I’m just sayin’ …
In all seriousness though, no one loves the holiday season and a festive décor more than I do. I adore sparkly twinkle lights on a real fir tree placed strategically in the front window so passers-by can admire it from the street (giving you an indoor-outdoor decorative action -- a nice two-fer as it were); underneath should be beautifully wrapped parcels (done by the nice church ladies at the mall) evoking memories of the 15 different unsolicited Pottery Barn and Williams Sonoma catalogues received since Halloween; hand stitched, monogrammed stockings (at only $50 each) hanging from the fireplace mantle; and best of all, billions of cookies and gooey squares you couldn’t possibly eat but spent the last 4 weeks baking.
Any of this sounding familiar? I knew it! Santa told me you would understand. I saw him picking up a few things at Frager’s last week …
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
DOG*matic
An earlier version of this story appeared in Voice of the Hill, April 2005.
You know, a few years ago I realized I was probably the only person on the Hill without a dog. Everywhere I looked there were pooches frolicking, wagging, slobbering, barking, meeting friends for lunch on Tunnicliffe’s patio. Don’t get me wrong. I love dogs and really wished I had one myself until I discovered that owning a dog is a whole lot different now from when I was a kid. (You remember, back when dogs slept right on the floor and the pooper-scooper was your Dad’s lawnmower?) Today you need a diploma from the “right” obedience school, regular trips to the grooming salon (because god forbid your pup has guck in its teeth), hypo-allergenic doggie beds, and of course, low carb, vegetarian, or even kosher pet food. The same brand of Dr Ballard’s in a can every night just ain’t gonna cut it any more for today’s “well socialized” dog.
This whole thing started for me in March 2005 when I spent a weekend in New York celebrating my birthday with some urgently needed retail therapy. To my surprise, almost everywhere I went there were dogs – on the street, in coffee shops and hotel lobbies, and even in the Barney’s mother ship where some crazed woman was dragging around the teeniest dog-like critter (and that is being overly generous) as a fashion accessory. It was on a long pink leash and was trying to scurry around the very crowded aisle near the concierge desk, just like it was at home (and in hindsight, I think Barney’s may have been its second home.) I was horrified that someone was going to accidentally squash it with their $1,800 four- inch heeled, suede designer winter boots and no one would even notice. This got me wondering: did that go on in DC too? Had Capitol Hill become over-run with designer pets and child surrogates of the four legged kind and I hadn’t even noticed? On my return to DC, I decided to set up an independent, non-partisan research study to check out a dog’s life on the Hill.
My research officially began at Lincoln Park, the former 24 hour-a-day full service drug market. I lived in that ‘hood for five years in the late 1990s and let me tell you that back in the day, the local wildlife trended more to closer to the ground hungry little critters with long tails, if you catch my drift, than to frisky chocolate labs bounding after tennis balls. In spring 2005, the Park was already Dog Central, the place where many locals went to exercise Fido while making plans for Friday nite.
Dogs definitely were all over the Hill and in big numbers, but anyone who lives on the Hill today surely will testify to the shift in demographics both human and animal in and around Lincoln Park. On any given day now, you will find mostly mommies, daddies, or nannies pushing kids in baby strollers, and laughing at their happy waggy-tailed dogs. Frisbees are flying, dogs are rolling in the grass, and kids are squealing with total delight at the spectacle (well, the playground with the cool monkey bars and sandbox doesn’t hurt either.) It is the picture of the American Dream sans white picket fence. In the early evening the crowd changes slightly as the single working people come out to walk their dogs and catch up with the local gossip. Not so many toddlers at this time of day but plenty of joggers and pets jumping up and down as they greet their long lost pals they haven’t seen since at least the day before. There’s a very high energy level which ramps up as more dogs and people join the mix until near dusk when even the dogs want to go home and chill.
There are several of these so-called dog-friendly parks on the Hill now and people seem to be making good use of them. I talked to one woman who flat out told me that she got a dog to meet men. I’m willing to bet the farm (the kennel?) that she is not alone on that front.
As for the dogs, well you’ve just got to see these puppies yourself to believe it. I mean, some of them are better dressed than the human at the other end of the leash. There’s the fluffy little white dog with the Burberry sweater, and the shiny black lab with the matching Coach leash and collar, and once in a while, some really foofoo dog wearing teeny rubber boots. There are far more pit bull looking dogs than there used to be, but the labs and the shaggy tailed dogs definitely are in the majority.
As part of the original research study, I visited Doolittle’s Chateau Animaux at Eastern Market. Ashley and Judy were holding down the fort when I arrived one sunny, warm Saturday afternoon. The store was a tad over stuffed with giant bags of food, vitamins, toys, kennels, breath and gas relief tablets (!), and other unexpected things. Ashley quickly explained that demand for their services (retail and pet grooming) had grown so much over the past few years, they were about to move to their new space on Barracks Row which they have been in now for several years. I looked around and was particularly taken by the mini-couches for pets. Ashley told me they were a hot new item that was about to sell out. Now this was a nice couch. Looked rather plush to me. Immediately I could picture some nattily groomed dog curled up on it in front of a flat-screen TV watching Animal Planet and munching on “Grandma Lucy’s Freeze Dried Meatball Treats” or “Daisy Delight’s Baco Bit Bears.”
On to Pawticulars on 8th Street where I met Jennifer, the Top Dog (it says so on her business card.) This is when things really started to come together for me as I realized that the phrase “it’s a dog’s life” is based in truth. While visiting with Jennifer, I don’t know how many pooches and people came through the store. Not one of them left without buying a treat. On the counter were elaborately decorated doggie cookies shaped like baseballs, donuts, bon-bons, and of course, bones among other shapes. Pawticulars also seemed to do a good business in the doggie birthday field; there was a large cooler with cakes (carob-banana chip, for example) that you can order for Rover’s birthday party. Then again, for the more casual celebration, like for Allie who dropped in on her 5th birthday with “Mom” and “Dad”, there was the giant cookie bone with Happy Birthday written on it. I also met Coffee who came in to get a halter and Bessie who was in the market for a new T-shirt. Jennifer explained that some dogs come in every day for a treat. She suspects that Barney Bush (the former First Dog) had either been in the store or received a gift from there as one day out of the blue in the mail Jennifer received an autographed photo of Barney from the White House. Even in DC’s pet care market, it’s all about the political connections!
I wound up my research at Dog-Ma, DC’s first daycare for dogs. Honestly, I felt like I was in doggie paradise with Dog-Ma’s two huge yards, loads of toys, playhouse, and “swimming” pool. Years before, owner Rebecca was working 14 hour days and traveling often for work. She felt guilty about leaving her dog alone and frankly, was more than a little fed up with her job. In a total shifting of gears, she opened Dog-Ma on Virginia Avenue just past the Marine Barracks. Today this very busy doggie day-care caters to well-behaved, socialized (don’t you love that term?), healthy dogs. Some come every day, some once in a while, and some even vacation at Dog-Ma while their family hits the slopes or lounges at the beach. Since opening Dog-Ma, Rebecca and her staff have cared for thousands of dogs; only one decided that the grass really was greener on the other side of the freeway. That little pup was retrieved unharmed much to everyone’s relief.
While I agree that this is far from a comprehensive study (a moderate government grant or appropriation would have helped, I’m telling you), it does give a glimpse into some of the services and products available to Hill dwellers and their pampered pooches.
On a personal note, I’ve decided that the good news is that I want to come back in my next lifetime as a household pet of a senior Hill staffer whose spouse works at a non-profit, and they have one, maybe two young kids. The bad news is that they probably couldn’t afford a dog by then because pet care costs and expectations are rising rapidly. I’d likely end up in some West Virginia farm chasing cows all day. Charming. Let it be known that I am definitely not a cow pattie kinda gal, even if I were a dog.
You know, a few years ago I realized I was probably the only person on the Hill without a dog. Everywhere I looked there were pooches frolicking, wagging, slobbering, barking, meeting friends for lunch on Tunnicliffe’s patio. Don’t get me wrong. I love dogs and really wished I had one myself until I discovered that owning a dog is a whole lot different now from when I was a kid. (You remember, back when dogs slept right on the floor and the pooper-scooper was your Dad’s lawnmower?) Today you need a diploma from the “right” obedience school, regular trips to the grooming salon (because god forbid your pup has guck in its teeth), hypo-allergenic doggie beds, and of course, low carb, vegetarian, or even kosher pet food. The same brand of Dr Ballard’s in a can every night just ain’t gonna cut it any more for today’s “well socialized” dog.
This whole thing started for me in March 2005 when I spent a weekend in New York celebrating my birthday with some urgently needed retail therapy. To my surprise, almost everywhere I went there were dogs – on the street, in coffee shops and hotel lobbies, and even in the Barney’s mother ship where some crazed woman was dragging around the teeniest dog-like critter (and that is being overly generous) as a fashion accessory. It was on a long pink leash and was trying to scurry around the very crowded aisle near the concierge desk, just like it was at home (and in hindsight, I think Barney’s may have been its second home.) I was horrified that someone was going to accidentally squash it with their $1,800 four- inch heeled, suede designer winter boots and no one would even notice. This got me wondering: did that go on in DC too? Had Capitol Hill become over-run with designer pets and child surrogates of the four legged kind and I hadn’t even noticed? On my return to DC, I decided to set up an independent, non-partisan research study to check out a dog’s life on the Hill.
My research officially began at Lincoln Park, the former 24 hour-a-day full service drug market. I lived in that ‘hood for five years in the late 1990s and let me tell you that back in the day, the local wildlife trended more to closer to the ground hungry little critters with long tails, if you catch my drift, than to frisky chocolate labs bounding after tennis balls. In spring 2005, the Park was already Dog Central, the place where many locals went to exercise Fido while making plans for Friday nite.
Dogs definitely were all over the Hill and in big numbers, but anyone who lives on the Hill today surely will testify to the shift in demographics both human and animal in and around Lincoln Park. On any given day now, you will find mostly mommies, daddies, or nannies pushing kids in baby strollers, and laughing at their happy waggy-tailed dogs. Frisbees are flying, dogs are rolling in the grass, and kids are squealing with total delight at the spectacle (well, the playground with the cool monkey bars and sandbox doesn’t hurt either.) It is the picture of the American Dream sans white picket fence. In the early evening the crowd changes slightly as the single working people come out to walk their dogs and catch up with the local gossip. Not so many toddlers at this time of day but plenty of joggers and pets jumping up and down as they greet their long lost pals they haven’t seen since at least the day before. There’s a very high energy level which ramps up as more dogs and people join the mix until near dusk when even the dogs want to go home and chill.
There are several of these so-called dog-friendly parks on the Hill now and people seem to be making good use of them. I talked to one woman who flat out told me that she got a dog to meet men. I’m willing to bet the farm (the kennel?) that she is not alone on that front.
As for the dogs, well you’ve just got to see these puppies yourself to believe it. I mean, some of them are better dressed than the human at the other end of the leash. There’s the fluffy little white dog with the Burberry sweater, and the shiny black lab with the matching Coach leash and collar, and once in a while, some really foofoo dog wearing teeny rubber boots. There are far more pit bull looking dogs than there used to be, but the labs and the shaggy tailed dogs definitely are in the majority.
As part of the original research study, I visited Doolittle’s Chateau Animaux at Eastern Market. Ashley and Judy were holding down the fort when I arrived one sunny, warm Saturday afternoon. The store was a tad over stuffed with giant bags of food, vitamins, toys, kennels, breath and gas relief tablets (!), and other unexpected things. Ashley quickly explained that demand for their services (retail and pet grooming) had grown so much over the past few years, they were about to move to their new space on Barracks Row which they have been in now for several years. I looked around and was particularly taken by the mini-couches for pets. Ashley told me they were a hot new item that was about to sell out. Now this was a nice couch. Looked rather plush to me. Immediately I could picture some nattily groomed dog curled up on it in front of a flat-screen TV watching Animal Planet and munching on “Grandma Lucy’s Freeze Dried Meatball Treats” or “Daisy Delight’s Baco Bit Bears.”
On to Pawticulars on 8th Street where I met Jennifer, the Top Dog (it says so on her business card.) This is when things really started to come together for me as I realized that the phrase “it’s a dog’s life” is based in truth. While visiting with Jennifer, I don’t know how many pooches and people came through the store. Not one of them left without buying a treat. On the counter were elaborately decorated doggie cookies shaped like baseballs, donuts, bon-bons, and of course, bones among other shapes. Pawticulars also seemed to do a good business in the doggie birthday field; there was a large cooler with cakes (carob-banana chip, for example) that you can order for Rover’s birthday party. Then again, for the more casual celebration, like for Allie who dropped in on her 5th birthday with “Mom” and “Dad”, there was the giant cookie bone with Happy Birthday written on it. I also met Coffee who came in to get a halter and Bessie who was in the market for a new T-shirt. Jennifer explained that some dogs come in every day for a treat. She suspects that Barney Bush (the former First Dog) had either been in the store or received a gift from there as one day out of the blue in the mail Jennifer received an autographed photo of Barney from the White House. Even in DC’s pet care market, it’s all about the political connections!
I wound up my research at Dog-Ma, DC’s first daycare for dogs. Honestly, I felt like I was in doggie paradise with Dog-Ma’s two huge yards, loads of toys, playhouse, and “swimming” pool. Years before, owner Rebecca was working 14 hour days and traveling often for work. She felt guilty about leaving her dog alone and frankly, was more than a little fed up with her job. In a total shifting of gears, she opened Dog-Ma on Virginia Avenue just past the Marine Barracks. Today this very busy doggie day-care caters to well-behaved, socialized (don’t you love that term?), healthy dogs. Some come every day, some once in a while, and some even vacation at Dog-Ma while their family hits the slopes or lounges at the beach. Since opening Dog-Ma, Rebecca and her staff have cared for thousands of dogs; only one decided that the grass really was greener on the other side of the freeway. That little pup was retrieved unharmed much to everyone’s relief.
While I agree that this is far from a comprehensive study (a moderate government grant or appropriation would have helped, I’m telling you), it does give a glimpse into some of the services and products available to Hill dwellers and their pampered pooches.
On a personal note, I’ve decided that the good news is that I want to come back in my next lifetime as a household pet of a senior Hill staffer whose spouse works at a non-profit, and they have one, maybe two young kids. The bad news is that they probably couldn’t afford a dog by then because pet care costs and expectations are rising rapidly. I’d likely end up in some West Virginia farm chasing cows all day. Charming. Let it be known that I am definitely not a cow pattie kinda gal, even if I were a dog.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Greetings ... again
A version of this story originally appeared in the Voice of the Hill, January 2005
You know, when you meet people these days, and I don’t only mean total strangers but also those near and dear to your heart (like your family, the next door neighbour’s athletic looking pool boy [sigh], or your favourite bartender at your favourite watering hole), there is an instinctual moment of panic that ensues. Just how do you know what you are supposed to do next now that you are face to face with this person? Should you shake hands? Hug? Kiss one cheek? Kiss both cheeks? Double back on the first cheek for a total of three kisses? Hug and kiss? Run in the other direction? What is the proper greeting these days? And just who is deciding anyway?
This is one of those universal dilemmas that I hear people discuss with great regularity. Meeting people has become so messy and touchy-feely that it almost makes me want to stay home for fear of insulting someone because I am either: A) too gregarious, or B) not gregarious enough with my greeting. Sometimes I just want cross the street or hide behind my menu to avoid contact because I’m not sure of the protocol of the situation. For example, how do you greet someone from your office when you surprisingly run into them at Eastern Market on the weekend? This is a particularly tough case because at work you wouldn’t dream of getting close enough to hug or kiss a colleague. Yet, this is definitely an informal encounter so is it expected you would be more familiar? A no-brainer you would think, but in reality this common situation has the potential to derail your entire career if you are not careful. I know it feels like a casual social situation because it is Saturday morning, you are puttering around the Hill wearing your favourite jeans and old runners, the dog is in tow, and you may or may not have showered or brushed your teeth. But honestly. Do you want to be known as the guy who groped the woman three cubes down? In public? In front of her daughter?
Now, I’m all for a little self expression and it can be rather flattering when someone actually wants to buss you on the cheek, but I am telling you life was a lot simpler when we followed rules and more or less kept our hands (and lips) to ourselves. For example, time was that no matter what you needed to know about meeting and greeting (among other potential social landmines) you could find it out by skimming Etiquette; the Blue Book of Social Usage by Emily Post. Oh yeah baby, it was all there in black and white. Pages and pages and pages of how to greet anyone on the planet in any situation at any time of year. OK so maybe there was a lot of memory work involved but I promise you that no where in the entire 917 pages of my volume (published in 1942 by Funk & Wagnall’s – yes of the dictionary fame) is there mention of kissing or hugging when greeting anyone. Mrs. Post would have fainted dead away at the suggestion of such intimacy. The basic rules, I surmise, were that when gentlemen met they always shook hands. When a lady met a gentleman it was her option to offer her hand or not. There was no lip locking, no slobbering on someone’s cheek any number of times, certainly no bear hugs, and positively no “Hey babe. What up?” Mrs. Post recommended a simple “How do you do?”
Well, I’m thinking that this kind of formality and crystal clear clarity might be a good thing. I get so darned confused – no make that intimidated -- by all of this loosey goosey kissing thing that I’m almost paralyzed, and I like kissing! I guess it is more that I really don’t know who expects what, how often, and how close. Does anyone know anymore?
DC folks have become pretty amorous in their greetings as I am sure you have noticed. We’ve all seen it: women kissing men, women kissing women, men kissing men, weirdoes kissing pets, everyone kissing babies and small children. Jeez. It’s one big rambunctious group hug out there. No wonder there are so many baby strollers in Lincoln Park these days!
Seriously though, it really is a dilemma. I have a very good Persian friend who is a two cheek kisser. I am a one cheek kisser. Both of us are huggers too. On more than one occasion when we are together and have come upon a mutual acquaintance, we have set in motion a cosmic collision of huggy/kissy affection versus head-spinning mayhem. Witness: she approaches our mutual friend and greets them warmly with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. A standard has been set for this encounter. But I am only a one cheek kisser so when I plant my one and only, the recipient more often than not has already turned their head in expectation of a second buss that doesn’t materialize. Yikes! Noses are bonked, lipstick is smeared, and invariably someone begins to blush and feel awkward. Imaging this scene if a French three cheek kisser entered the picture. We’re talking major chaos here. Sure, it’s all fun until someone loses an eye.
And just when does all of this hugging business cross the line to groping? Is the hug you give your grandma the same as the hug you give someone for whom you have lust in your heart (understanding that lust isn’t necessarily always a bad thing even if you are Jimmy Carter)? Is your partner justified in reading you the riot act when you’ve never been one for any kind of public show of affection and suddenly you become a two cheek kisser and close hugger when introduced to the Perfect Ten who just moved in next door? Talk about the potential for the mother of all relationship dramas.
So what is the answer? Or in a city as cosmopolitan and eclectic as DC can there be a solution? I think that we should take a cue from our friends to the far north and throw a little Eskimo kissing into the mix, just for shits and giggles. You know, the rubbing of noses thing. If you think we have confusion now, just wait until that catches on. Too bad we didn’t start this sooner cuz we sure had loads of time to practice Eskimo kisses last winter during the ongoing Snowpocalypse.
You know, when you meet people these days, and I don’t only mean total strangers but also those near and dear to your heart (like your family, the next door neighbour’s athletic looking pool boy [sigh], or your favourite bartender at your favourite watering hole), there is an instinctual moment of panic that ensues. Just how do you know what you are supposed to do next now that you are face to face with this person? Should you shake hands? Hug? Kiss one cheek? Kiss both cheeks? Double back on the first cheek for a total of three kisses? Hug and kiss? Run in the other direction? What is the proper greeting these days? And just who is deciding anyway?
This is one of those universal dilemmas that I hear people discuss with great regularity. Meeting people has become so messy and touchy-feely that it almost makes me want to stay home for fear of insulting someone because I am either: A) too gregarious, or B) not gregarious enough with my greeting. Sometimes I just want cross the street or hide behind my menu to avoid contact because I’m not sure of the protocol of the situation. For example, how do you greet someone from your office when you surprisingly run into them at Eastern Market on the weekend? This is a particularly tough case because at work you wouldn’t dream of getting close enough to hug or kiss a colleague. Yet, this is definitely an informal encounter so is it expected you would be more familiar? A no-brainer you would think, but in reality this common situation has the potential to derail your entire career if you are not careful. I know it feels like a casual social situation because it is Saturday morning, you are puttering around the Hill wearing your favourite jeans and old runners, the dog is in tow, and you may or may not have showered or brushed your teeth. But honestly. Do you want to be known as the guy who groped the woman three cubes down? In public? In front of her daughter?
Now, I’m all for a little self expression and it can be rather flattering when someone actually wants to buss you on the cheek, but I am telling you life was a lot simpler when we followed rules and more or less kept our hands (and lips) to ourselves. For example, time was that no matter what you needed to know about meeting and greeting (among other potential social landmines) you could find it out by skimming Etiquette; the Blue Book of Social Usage by Emily Post. Oh yeah baby, it was all there in black and white. Pages and pages and pages of how to greet anyone on the planet in any situation at any time of year. OK so maybe there was a lot of memory work involved but I promise you that no where in the entire 917 pages of my volume (published in 1942 by Funk & Wagnall’s – yes of the dictionary fame) is there mention of kissing or hugging when greeting anyone. Mrs. Post would have fainted dead away at the suggestion of such intimacy. The basic rules, I surmise, were that when gentlemen met they always shook hands. When a lady met a gentleman it was her option to offer her hand or not. There was no lip locking, no slobbering on someone’s cheek any number of times, certainly no bear hugs, and positively no “Hey babe. What up?” Mrs. Post recommended a simple “How do you do?”
Well, I’m thinking that this kind of formality and crystal clear clarity might be a good thing. I get so darned confused – no make that intimidated -- by all of this loosey goosey kissing thing that I’m almost paralyzed, and I like kissing! I guess it is more that I really don’t know who expects what, how often, and how close. Does anyone know anymore?
DC folks have become pretty amorous in their greetings as I am sure you have noticed. We’ve all seen it: women kissing men, women kissing women, men kissing men, weirdoes kissing pets, everyone kissing babies and small children. Jeez. It’s one big rambunctious group hug out there. No wonder there are so many baby strollers in Lincoln Park these days!
Seriously though, it really is a dilemma. I have a very good Persian friend who is a two cheek kisser. I am a one cheek kisser. Both of us are huggers too. On more than one occasion when we are together and have come upon a mutual acquaintance, we have set in motion a cosmic collision of huggy/kissy affection versus head-spinning mayhem. Witness: she approaches our mutual friend and greets them warmly with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. A standard has been set for this encounter. But I am only a one cheek kisser so when I plant my one and only, the recipient more often than not has already turned their head in expectation of a second buss that doesn’t materialize. Yikes! Noses are bonked, lipstick is smeared, and invariably someone begins to blush and feel awkward. Imaging this scene if a French three cheek kisser entered the picture. We’re talking major chaos here. Sure, it’s all fun until someone loses an eye.
And just when does all of this hugging business cross the line to groping? Is the hug you give your grandma the same as the hug you give someone for whom you have lust in your heart (understanding that lust isn’t necessarily always a bad thing even if you are Jimmy Carter)? Is your partner justified in reading you the riot act when you’ve never been one for any kind of public show of affection and suddenly you become a two cheek kisser and close hugger when introduced to the Perfect Ten who just moved in next door? Talk about the potential for the mother of all relationship dramas.
So what is the answer? Or in a city as cosmopolitan and eclectic as DC can there be a solution? I think that we should take a cue from our friends to the far north and throw a little Eskimo kissing into the mix, just for shits and giggles. You know, the rubbing of noses thing. If you think we have confusion now, just wait until that catches on. Too bad we didn’t start this sooner cuz we sure had loads of time to practice Eskimo kisses last winter during the ongoing Snowpocalypse.
Observing BAG*GAGE a la 2010
The original story appeared in the Voice of the Hill, October 2004.
You know … almost everyone in DC carries a bag. Lots of people carry two or more. Look around and you will see what I mean, particularly on Metro in the morning, my favourite people watching venue.
Young professional women carry the most bags. An early twenty-something woman leaves her apartment Monday morning with a handbag draped on one shoulder (it may or may not coordinate with today’s outfit because she can’t yet afford a fleet of different coloured bags), a slightly beat up gym bag also hung over one shoulder and looped across her chest (because she is determined to hit the gym today since she needs to lose 5 pounds by Saturday evening when she wants to wear her tight jeans when she goes out for drinks with the girls), a mini pink Victoria’s Secret shopping bag with her lunch tucked inside is clutched in one hand. On the menu is either leftover pizza from Sunday evening’s card game, or a salad made with the intention that “this week for sure I will stick to my diet.” More likely lunch is a power bar, an interchangeable banana/apple depending on what was left from the grocery run last week, and a fat free yoghurt. An umbrella might be poking out of one of the bags. There’s a good possibility she also is carrying the free Express handed to her as she entered the Metro at Tenley, and maybe a novel.
This is a lot of baggage to maneuver especially when searching for the illusive Metro card that inevitably has wormed its way to the bottom of one of her bags. By the way, is there anyone out there who hasn’t crashed into the back of some woman as she stops cold right in front of the exit turnstile because she can’t locate her Metro card in all of her bags? You know what I am talking about ...
Finally exiting the Metro, she stuffs the newspaper and novel into one of the open bags because god knows there are only so many hands and she still needs to run through Starbucks on the way to the office for coffee and yes, another little bag with a scone.
Even on weekends young women seem to cart around a lot of bags. Check out the scene at Eastern Market any Saturday or Sunday afternoon. The typical young woman will have a shoulder bag (a purse or maybe a faux designer backpack or heaven forbid, a Hello Kitty backpack!). In one hand she has a cotton grocery-type bag with tomatoes, peaches, and salsa, or perhaps yet another newly purchased handbag from one of the Market vendors (a bag within a bag). Throw a curious dog on a leash into the mix and this truly is an impressive juggling act.
Young Washington-area men too carry a lot of bags but theirs are very different from those of their female counterparts. Men in their twenties seem to carry more college-looking paraphernalia such as backpacks with alma mater logos, long-strapped book bags (again with school logo), and occasionally plastic grocery bags stuffed with dress shoes or runners (the opposite of what he currently has on his feet). Bags are not coordinated with his outfit; in fact, they aggressively bear no relationship to what he is wearing. Whether he is a graduate student, works at one of the gazillions of non-profits in the region, or is a freshly minted law associate, this is a Washington truism. You know I’m right.
Thirty-something DC women and men are more stylish in their choice of bags. This is a function of age, earning power, or the desire to portray a polished professional image. (“I have Arrived!”) As Washingtonians stride confidently into their thirties, their bags take on more cosmic meanings. The right bag becomes a public marker of one’s place in the all-important DC food chain. Indeed, who doesn’t look twice at the Louis Vuitton handbag on the arm of the attractive woman in the black suit and matching pumps preparing to get off at Farragut North to see if she is carrying a “real” Louis? Chances are that this status savvy gal-about-town also has with her a trim leather briefcase, shut up as tight as Homeland Security. Her coordinated and self assured public persona is rounded out with a tidy looking workout bag supposedly containing her athletic gear. Indeed this bag is a far cry from the gym bag she carried just a few years ago. The current incarnation has a designer label or trendy pattern that implies she is serious about her fitness commitment, whether this is true or not. Her bag may simply contain the Washington Post or Financial Times, her Burberry umbrella, her niece’s artwork to be hung in her cubicle, and oh, quite incidentally, her yoga clothes and mat. What difference does it make? Right now, at this moment in her life it’s all about the bag itself more than the baggage in it.
Even men at this stage are noticeably more aware of their bags. Gone are the sloppy backpacks and crinkly grocery bags, replaced with a medium sized briefcase. Please note that a male owned briefcase often is larger than one carried by a female. Why? Because it holds more “stuff.” Women tend to compartmentalize their bags into specific functions. Men will pitch everything into one bag and hope like hell they can get away with it. Furthermore, it is important that the male owned bag be innocuous. No man in DC wants to be known as “the guy with the really great bag.” I don’t care if he is straight or gay. In DC, most men are religiously conservative in how they present themselves. You will not see a lot of European man-bags around this town.
There will always be folks out there who carry bags from last year’s conference on global warming and energy policy with the long list of sponsor logos plastered all over the front, or use the freebie canvas bag they got when they contributed to WETA four years ago (because “damn it, it’s still a good bag. My wife just needs to wash it”). But especially in the Capitol Hill and Downtown sectors of DC, people tend to be slightly more polished. Or think they are more polished.
As Washingtonians age, the bags they carry often are more expensive and industry specific than what they sported earlier in their career. For example, lawyers of a certain stature use large leather, briefing bags with locks and buckles; junior associates generally schlep these bags for their mentors. These lawyerly bags are curious looking and can give the owner an air of importance. You will, however, wait a long time to see any of these bags on Metro. Workout bags virtually disappear on most of the over forties crowd. Those people who do maintain a gym membership use the facilities at their Club where their workout gear is laundered daily on-site thus negating the need for a bag. Rarely do you see anyone from this set carrying their things in a grocery or shopping bag! That said, however, I have a friend who owns several quite nice bags in which to transport his papers between office and home, but uses a plastic bag or no bag at all. I don’t get it but it makes him happy.
This is just the tip of the iceberg, I know. What about the many bags parents carry, especially mothers of toddlers? Colourful diaper bags, bags of toys and/or snacks, maybe even a bag for covering the stroller are all de rigueur. And, what’s the deal with the hierarchy of shopping bags we all use from time to time? How come we are OK being seen holding a bag from Neiman Marcus or Brooks Brothers but a bag from Walmart or Target can cause heart palpitations? Talk about bag*gage.
I’m not sure but I think that’s an entrée to another story …
You know … almost everyone in DC carries a bag. Lots of people carry two or more. Look around and you will see what I mean, particularly on Metro in the morning, my favourite people watching venue.
Young professional women carry the most bags. An early twenty-something woman leaves her apartment Monday morning with a handbag draped on one shoulder (it may or may not coordinate with today’s outfit because she can’t yet afford a fleet of different coloured bags), a slightly beat up gym bag also hung over one shoulder and looped across her chest (because she is determined to hit the gym today since she needs to lose 5 pounds by Saturday evening when she wants to wear her tight jeans when she goes out for drinks with the girls), a mini pink Victoria’s Secret shopping bag with her lunch tucked inside is clutched in one hand. On the menu is either leftover pizza from Sunday evening’s card game, or a salad made with the intention that “this week for sure I will stick to my diet.” More likely lunch is a power bar, an interchangeable banana/apple depending on what was left from the grocery run last week, and a fat free yoghurt. An umbrella might be poking out of one of the bags. There’s a good possibility she also is carrying the free Express handed to her as she entered the Metro at Tenley, and maybe a novel.
This is a lot of baggage to maneuver especially when searching for the illusive Metro card that inevitably has wormed its way to the bottom of one of her bags. By the way, is there anyone out there who hasn’t crashed into the back of some woman as she stops cold right in front of the exit turnstile because she can’t locate her Metro card in all of her bags? You know what I am talking about ...
Finally exiting the Metro, she stuffs the newspaper and novel into one of the open bags because god knows there are only so many hands and she still needs to run through Starbucks on the way to the office for coffee and yes, another little bag with a scone.
Even on weekends young women seem to cart around a lot of bags. Check out the scene at Eastern Market any Saturday or Sunday afternoon. The typical young woman will have a shoulder bag (a purse or maybe a faux designer backpack or heaven forbid, a Hello Kitty backpack!). In one hand she has a cotton grocery-type bag with tomatoes, peaches, and salsa, or perhaps yet another newly purchased handbag from one of the Market vendors (a bag within a bag). Throw a curious dog on a leash into the mix and this truly is an impressive juggling act.
Young Washington-area men too carry a lot of bags but theirs are very different from those of their female counterparts. Men in their twenties seem to carry more college-looking paraphernalia such as backpacks with alma mater logos, long-strapped book bags (again with school logo), and occasionally plastic grocery bags stuffed with dress shoes or runners (the opposite of what he currently has on his feet). Bags are not coordinated with his outfit; in fact, they aggressively bear no relationship to what he is wearing. Whether he is a graduate student, works at one of the gazillions of non-profits in the region, or is a freshly minted law associate, this is a Washington truism. You know I’m right.
Thirty-something DC women and men are more stylish in their choice of bags. This is a function of age, earning power, or the desire to portray a polished professional image. (“I have Arrived!”) As Washingtonians stride confidently into their thirties, their bags take on more cosmic meanings. The right bag becomes a public marker of one’s place in the all-important DC food chain. Indeed, who doesn’t look twice at the Louis Vuitton handbag on the arm of the attractive woman in the black suit and matching pumps preparing to get off at Farragut North to see if she is carrying a “real” Louis? Chances are that this status savvy gal-about-town also has with her a trim leather briefcase, shut up as tight as Homeland Security. Her coordinated and self assured public persona is rounded out with a tidy looking workout bag supposedly containing her athletic gear. Indeed this bag is a far cry from the gym bag she carried just a few years ago. The current incarnation has a designer label or trendy pattern that implies she is serious about her fitness commitment, whether this is true or not. Her bag may simply contain the Washington Post or Financial Times, her Burberry umbrella, her niece’s artwork to be hung in her cubicle, and oh, quite incidentally, her yoga clothes and mat. What difference does it make? Right now, at this moment in her life it’s all about the bag itself more than the baggage in it.
Even men at this stage are noticeably more aware of their bags. Gone are the sloppy backpacks and crinkly grocery bags, replaced with a medium sized briefcase. Please note that a male owned briefcase often is larger than one carried by a female. Why? Because it holds more “stuff.” Women tend to compartmentalize their bags into specific functions. Men will pitch everything into one bag and hope like hell they can get away with it. Furthermore, it is important that the male owned bag be innocuous. No man in DC wants to be known as “the guy with the really great bag.” I don’t care if he is straight or gay. In DC, most men are religiously conservative in how they present themselves. You will not see a lot of European man-bags around this town.
There will always be folks out there who carry bags from last year’s conference on global warming and energy policy with the long list of sponsor logos plastered all over the front, or use the freebie canvas bag they got when they contributed to WETA four years ago (because “damn it, it’s still a good bag. My wife just needs to wash it”). But especially in the Capitol Hill and Downtown sectors of DC, people tend to be slightly more polished. Or think they are more polished.
As Washingtonians age, the bags they carry often are more expensive and industry specific than what they sported earlier in their career. For example, lawyers of a certain stature use large leather, briefing bags with locks and buckles; junior associates generally schlep these bags for their mentors. These lawyerly bags are curious looking and can give the owner an air of importance. You will, however, wait a long time to see any of these bags on Metro. Workout bags virtually disappear on most of the over forties crowd. Those people who do maintain a gym membership use the facilities at their Club where their workout gear is laundered daily on-site thus negating the need for a bag. Rarely do you see anyone from this set carrying their things in a grocery or shopping bag! That said, however, I have a friend who owns several quite nice bags in which to transport his papers between office and home, but uses a plastic bag or no bag at all. I don’t get it but it makes him happy.
This is just the tip of the iceberg, I know. What about the many bags parents carry, especially mothers of toddlers? Colourful diaper bags, bags of toys and/or snacks, maybe even a bag for covering the stroller are all de rigueur. And, what’s the deal with the hierarchy of shopping bags we all use from time to time? How come we are OK being seen holding a bag from Neiman Marcus or Brooks Brothers but a bag from Walmart or Target can cause heart palpitations? Talk about bag*gage.
I’m not sure but I think that’s an entrée to another story …
Monday, June 21, 2010
Life in the South - The Late Nite Bug Episode
June 17, 2010; 4:15 am
Jesus H. Christ on a Popscicle stick! My heart is still pounding. There was just a HUGE bug in my bathroom! Ginormous! With antennae as long as my fingers! I, of course, was half asleep (all this at 3:45 am) and not wearing my glasses but as I was turning out the light, I spotted him on the white shower curtain. Couldn't miss him on that bright background. Panic ensued. I dashed downstairs and put on rubber boots and ski gloves, got bug spray and the Swifter (it has a long handle like a broom most usually used for dusting floors as opposed to combat maneuvres) expecting to knock him off the curtain into the tub and PRESTO! he would be history when I washed him down the drain. Only by the time I got back upstairs the bastard had relocated and was half way up the bathroom door. I NUKED him with bug spray and let me tell you, he certainly didn't go down without a fight. Sucker struggled all the way to the middle of the rug in the guest bedroom, me in tow spraying him with bug junk before he finally slowed down and I began whacking him with the Swifter. Now that had to be a sight-- me in blue and green cotton jammies, tall black rubber boots, beige ski gloves beating the hell out of this damn bug, covered in half a bottle of silvery-white bug spray, with my Swifter. There's a whole new marketing strategy for Swifter! Finally when I was sure he was a goner, I lifted the Swifter to peek and damn, if he didn't move so I pounded the crap out of him some more. When the carnage was over, I stomped downstairs to get paper towel (at least 10 sheets), stomped back up the stairs in case he was resurrected and was on the move again, scooped him up, and stomped back downstairs again to flush him in the powder room cuz no way in hell he was going to come floating back upstream into my toilet bowl. I was already traumatized enough to have that thought bounce around in my head for the next week. I cleaned up the river of bug spray cascading all over the floor in the hall (why do they make that stuff smell like flowers?), wiped off the bottom of the Swifter, and got myself a Popscicle to calm myself down. I may never sleep again. And so how was your nite?
Jesus H. Christ on a Popscicle stick! My heart is still pounding. There was just a HUGE bug in my bathroom! Ginormous! With antennae as long as my fingers! I, of course, was half asleep (all this at 3:45 am) and not wearing my glasses but as I was turning out the light, I spotted him on the white shower curtain. Couldn't miss him on that bright background. Panic ensued. I dashed downstairs and put on rubber boots and ski gloves, got bug spray and the Swifter (it has a long handle like a broom most usually used for dusting floors as opposed to combat maneuvres) expecting to knock him off the curtain into the tub and PRESTO! he would be history when I washed him down the drain. Only by the time I got back upstairs the bastard had relocated and was half way up the bathroom door. I NUKED him with bug spray and let me tell you, he certainly didn't go down without a fight. Sucker struggled all the way to the middle of the rug in the guest bedroom, me in tow spraying him with bug junk before he finally slowed down and I began whacking him with the Swifter. Now that had to be a sight-- me in blue and green cotton jammies, tall black rubber boots, beige ski gloves beating the hell out of this damn bug, covered in half a bottle of silvery-white bug spray, with my Swifter. There's a whole new marketing strategy for Swifter! Finally when I was sure he was a goner, I lifted the Swifter to peek and damn, if he didn't move so I pounded the crap out of him some more. When the carnage was over, I stomped downstairs to get paper towel (at least 10 sheets), stomped back up the stairs in case he was resurrected and was on the move again, scooped him up, and stomped back downstairs again to flush him in the powder room cuz no way in hell he was going to come floating back upstream into my toilet bowl. I was already traumatized enough to have that thought bounce around in my head for the next week. I cleaned up the river of bug spray cascading all over the floor in the hall (why do they make that stuff smell like flowers?), wiped off the bottom of the Swifter, and got myself a Popscicle to calm myself down. I may never sleep again. And so how was your nite?
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